We All Fall Down
by PoodlePop
Summary: When the whole world falls victim to a biological weapon developed in northeast asia can anyone help before the aftermath wipes off the entirety of the globe? Slight Spamano. Will involve other suggested pairings; FRUK, USUK, RUSAME, FRAIN, FRANADA, ETC.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: MATURE FOR EXTREME GORE AND SENSITAVE MATERIAL. DLDR. Might be a tad depressing. A thank you to all those who put up with my pointless moaning about my writing style, I hope you can all forgive me. The following events are fictional and not based on any real political situations. Credit and thank yous go to Froggy and Gab for the storyline and to the skype/iscribble role play group for the inspiration and drive to do it all those months ago. For translations see the bottom of the fic, any corrections are welcome as I'm not a speaker of either Latin or Italian._

* * *

><p>He had feared this would happen.<p>

They had all feared this would happen.

China was the first major power to go. Whilst the war effort had stopped North Korean advances, it didn't take long for the virus, a biological super weapon the Koreans had developed, to spread through the larger nation. Overpopulation and the heat drove the infection south, causing a sudden burst across the neighboring countries, flooding India and the Asian sibling nations. The virus was spreading faster than nations could shut themselves off from the world, it grew out of control, and it went wild.

America had been there. America had been there from the beginning. His forces had moved on North Korea just as soon as the Chinese. It was a suicide mission, soon the men learnt that when they were infected they'd not be granted leave to home, and as men refused to fight, so the bombs began to fall.

Any hope that the Koreans had an antidote were dashed as soon as the smoke cleared.

Things fell apart even more once the Russians became involved, who had supported North Korea from the sidelines and now, in their frustration of defeat, the nation opened its arms to the virus. Some infected themselves, some gave up. Either way the country had become hell bent on taking down everyone they could. People for years to come would assume this was a mad man's mission, but it wasn't until they discovered the Russian's believed they had the cure, did the poor few countries who remained know why.

Security increased. Airports were closed. Countries isolated themselves for fear of contamination.

However, that only slowed the infection.

Throughout history, Europe had always been the target, always been the continent with the most conflict. So did it really make it any different now? Any different now that the power had been shifted further east and west? No... That just made Europe something different. This made Europe the space in between, this made Europe 'No man's land'.

After the infection had taken out South America, the European nations were essentially surrounded. All imports of food had to be closed off, only some of the luckier nations dared to trade between neighbours. It was only a matter of waiting before one of the countries became diseased.

It started at Turkey, immigrants fleeing from the Middle East came baring the disease. People would pass on the tale of how a couple of cowards had essentially brought upon the downfall of Europe, their plague caught the Turks off guard, who had believed themselves impenetrable. Soon after Turkey, Greece fell, and the Russians got to their neighbouring former soviet states.

Belarus, Latvia, Estonia, Finland, Ukraine... They all fell.

Albania, Macedonia, Bulgaria, Serbia, Romania... They didn't stand a chance.

The panic started.

As soon as Lithuania began to fall, Poland foolishly rushed to aid. Security standards quickly became forgotten as people became crazed. Those who stayed died. Those who fled were either killed or turned away.

In the cold the virus spread slowly.

In the heat the virus thrives.

There was nothing they could do for Italy by the time anyone knew they were infected.

* * *

><p>He had seen Mexico, seen him in the American quarantine tents, just before they burnt any remains on the Texan border where the great disaster had struck hardest. They had told him that Mexico had been shot on sight as he fled across the border; they told him that they all had. There was nothing the Americans could do and they had to make sure of their own survival too, especially after Canada's subside. He didn't blame him, but that didn't stop the agony that followed in grief.<p>

The sight of Mexico's body hadn't been pretty. He looked starved, ribs protruding oddly through the bloodstained and tattered remains of his shirt. There were black and blue swells scattered around anywhere that hadn't already been bleeding, and any skin that did show was a grotesque shade of saturated yellow. The former colony's hair was a mess, Spain had to hold back whatever compelled him to comb it back and scold the nation for letting it get that way, it was streaked lightly with grey and a thick crusted layer of dead skin was gathered at the roots. He couldn't look at the younger nation's face. It was almost as if the former nation of Mexico, the former New Spain, had been rotting for weeks before his death.

There was no word from Argentina, nor any of his old American colonies, and no one dared venture beyond the safe zones.

All of the Spaniard's children were gone.

All of them.

He couldn't let South Italy go too.

The other nations had called him stupid. They had yelled at him, pleaded at him to rethink, but his eyes had turned steely and he had not listened. He wasn't like the German, he wasn't going to stand there and watch as Italy fell. After all, wasn't it clear that there was only so much time before they would all be destroyed?

And Spain was only a stone's throw away from Africa.

Antonio wasn't sure when he'd lost hope; when he had seen so many people who still held it close. So many of his people still tried to survive, still tried to help, and still prayed desperately for a miracle. Perhaps it was when he started seeing the effects on his fellow nations, or when he started seeing friends, family, and lovers fight against each other for life; killing one another in the process. Maybe it was once the panic started, once any order which the countries could cling to crumbled beneath their fingertips.

He had heard that Portugal stopped praying the day he heard about Brazil, the same day he started to cough.

* * *

><p>Lovino would kill him for this.<p>

The Lovino he knew would yell at him; would tell him he's a bastard, a stupid bastard who seems to think that the other needs his help. He would look at him with a fire in his eyes, a fire that could easily be confused for hate, for anger, for disgust. However, the Spanish nation knew him better than that. He had, after all, spent years, decades, centuries protecting the Italian nation, guiding the smaller country, supporting him and loving him.

This was not the Italy brother he knew, this Italy was dying.

Spain found them together, the grand walls and roof of the Sistine Chapel rising high above them, untouched by the decay of the modern world. For a moment everything was normal as Antonio's eyes swept across the fine artwork that decorated the cold stone. For a moment he was taken back, he could still remember the smell of the paint, see the bubbling excitement that was clear in Romano's young face, and the red that slowly spread across it when he realised what was being painted.

He looked so different now. He hadn't just grown, he had aged, and rapidly too.

It had been easy to tell there was something wrong, and not just by the field of bodies that scattered across the roads outside the Vatican. The fact that the majority appeared to be suicides was what had alarmed him most. The city was like a ghost town, there were no survivors, or at least none visible, he hoped. The Spaniard panicked. Was he too late? Was everyone already dead?

It was so quiet.

The chapel door had been barricaded; a small litter of cardinals lay about it as though they were useless dolls, cold hands still appearing to claw at the door even in death. Antonio did not try the door, instead making his way around the building, searching for a window, a side door, anything that he could break through. By the time he had found his way in he could already feel fatigue approaching, there wasn't long, and everything was silent, too silent.

His footsteps had echoed across the vast open space as he walked towards the aisle. Every time his sole made contact with the marble floor felt like a hard swallow, he felt like something was clenching tighter and tighter to his gut.

He had then noticed the blood.

There was blood on the floor.

And then he heard the chanting.

His heart began racing, pounding, beating against his ribcage. The Spaniard's head snapped up from the floor, trying desperately to locate the faint sound before it disappeared. Where was it? Who was it? Was Lovino here? Was he safe? Was he okay?

Hurrying down the aisle, feet faltering on the horrifying liquid, Spain barely made it to the gateway standing.

"...istam sanctan unctionem..."

The voice sent chills down his spine. It was raw, it was hoarse, it sounded like every sound it uttered was ripping a new hole in the speaker's body.

"...piissimam misericordiam..."

The Spaniard stared, ahead of him was the altar, its regal decorations scattered across the floor and the table cloth tugged away. It looked like there had been a struggle, something had happened, something important. Antonio's heart skipped a beat.

"... Dominus"

Only just in view, poking out from behind the alter, he could just about see a pair of bruised, unclothed feet.

"Per istam sanctan unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus"

Someone was moving Antonio's legs.

Some ungodly power had pushed the nation forward, or rather pulled him, down the aisle towards the altar. It must have been some other force, because the Spaniard felt he couldn't move an inch. Yet there he was, marching slowly towards the scene. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't blink, he couldn't even swallow as tonnes upon tonnes of dread fell on his heart.

He had been too late, hadn't he...?

He was now alone, wasn't he...?

The closer he got, the better he could see the damage. The blood from the entrance had intensified to the point he was sure he saw a large puddle of the liquid and, Antonio took a moment to gag, a sickly mess of grey bile and mucus mixed among it. The altar's cloth had smears of blood where it had been tugged at, there was a knife glistening ominously amongst the folds.

"...Requescant in pace..."

Something inside the Spaniards mind brought him back to reality.

Where was the chanting coming from?

"... R.." The brunette tested his voice, barely above a whisper. "...Romano...?"

There was silence.

"...ques... cant in..." There was a heavy cough and perhaps a sob that seemed to reverberate around the walls for an eternity. "-pace..."

Whoever it was who was here, they were alive, if they were a citizen of Italy that meant that Romano could be alive too. And if it weren't a citizen of Italy, then it could only be the one he was here looking for.

With this new affirmation of hope, the Spanish nation took a few hurried steps until he was around the altar and looking directly down at—

It wasn't Romano's feet he had seen, though the poor nation was there, clinging desperately to the clothes of the other behind the altar.

It wasn't South Italy.

"Che cazzo ci fai qui?" The brunette's head snapped around and he leapt back, scrambling somewhat to his feet, cursing as he left the other body exposed and then exploding into a ringing chorus of choking coughs.

It was the other one...

It was Feliciano.

* * *

><p>The image of the North Italian's fresh body had barely burnt into his mind before he found himself being shoved back. Slipping on the sea of crimson liquid, Antonio fell back gasping deep gulps of breath, the shock shaking his entire body.<p>

"Prendi il cazzo via da qui! Non avvicinarti! Immondo! Heathen!"

The former Spanish empire's eyes leapt up to the face of his assailant, his dear Romano, and he almost cried out in horror. If the sound of his voice hadn't been enough to let dread creep over him then the gaunt, grey skin and blood smeared face of his former protectorate had been. The poor boy's eyes were darkened, a sickly mix of yellow and crimson red contrasted revoltingly against his once beautiful hazel iris', and they appeared to have sunk into his skull so far that he had permanent rings of black around them. His cheeks were hollowed and ghastly, allowing the cheekbones to protrude out at an ugly angle. And those lips, those lips that the Spaniard had spent his life longing to kiss, were cracked, bloodied and torn at the sides, one of which had become infected and was excreting a puss like substance with every movement of the other's lips.

"Lo non ti lascerò lo porti da me, non voglio! Ha bisogno del vostro aiuto! Ha solo bisogno di me! Ti aiuto io! I'll do it better! Ci arriveremo attraverso questo! Basta guardare, non abbiamo bisogno del vostro aiuto! "

The voice was quiet and hoarse beyond belief, yet its intention was screamed through Antonio's head. Each word was like a last breath, gasping and barely audible. Some words weren't heard at all, Romano's mouth forming the speech yet none would come out of the boy. The very sight, the very sound, made Spain want to cry.

The Italian's eyes had a gaze of crazed fury. It wasn't the kind Antonio was used to, this looked like genuine anger, twisted, unhinged, but genuine anger. As he let the words echo endlessly in his mind the Spaniard forced himself to his feet, aware that Lovino would probably attempt to attack him again if he so much as moved from his spot.

"Sono il fratello più grande, quindi dovrei badare a lui! Se sei cazzo mi ascolta? "

There was a desperation that Spain had never known in the other's voice. The demands seemed to be told as if the other's very existence depended on it.

Antonio's eyes fell back on the other Italy, whose body was soaked in blood, crusted in places. Oh Romano, he thought pitifully, how long have you been over his body repeating his last rites? The wounds on the Italian however, were not generated by the disease, they appeared self inflicted. Spain remembered the knife, and pieces began to fall into place.

He stepped forward.

"Non toccarlo!"The ghostly form of Lovino screamed, voice actually giving his emotion justice for once before breaking in to another tearing rapture of coughing. "Tu ... tu lo... ammazzo!"

Sadness gripped the elder nation's heart, and he felt as though someone had reached inside and torn it away from him. Feliciano had clearly been dead for hours if not a day.

"Roma..." The old nickname sticking even in such circumstances, "He's not... Feliciano he's-"

"Non è morto!" The Italian's sudden scream, stilled the Spaniard's tongue. "Lui non è! Lui non lo è! Stai zitto! Stai zitto! Stai zitto! Stai zitto!"

Romano's hands flew up to his ears, screaming the same words again and again until he made no sound at all. Blood seeped from his abused lips and fell to the floor as he continued to scream in his mind. Then the young nation's body seized up, eyes flinging wide open and he fell to the floor, coughing turned to retching and it wasn't soon before more blood decorated the chapel.

Spain wanted to help but found he couldn't do a thing but watch.

It felt like an eternity before the cries finally ceased.

"Roma... Romano..." Antonio's horrified eyes finally moved from the space they'd unfocused at and glued to the Italian's arched back. His only response was harsh breathing, filling the humid, stale smelling air. The Spaniard moved to him, crouching beside him, more concerned for the victim than the foul hot liquid seeping into the knees of his trousers. "Shh... Romano... I-I'm here... "

The older man reached out apprehensively to touch the boy's shoulder. He wanted to comfort him.

A hand twisted its way up to stop him, bony and dry. Spain noticed the skin had become rough under his fingers, some dead parts flaked away from his touch, but any new flesh that was discovered was just as old as the rest.

The yells started again, even in the nation's present state.

"Scappare. Vattene via! Non ho bisogno di aiuto, non abbiamo bisogno di aiuto. Andate via! Chiudi il becco." His cries were weaker now, hoarser and dryer. Spain wished he'd brought aid, some water, some medicine, something. He wished he'd brought at least something to ease his little boy's pain.

The curses and stream of words continued, like a record on repeat. Somehow Antonio managed to get the boy to lie in his arms, making it a little more comfortable for the aching, rotting body of the great kingdom of two Scillies. The man was finally crying, silent tears falling from his face as he watched Romano stare up at the ceiling, muttering words that should be yells.

"Gli ho detto di non farlo. Gli dissi che avrebbe ottenuto sangue dappertutto, e avrei dovuto pulirlo. Gli ho detto quando è stato fatto sarebbe dispiaciuto, sarebbe stato chiesto il mio aiuto. Ha detto che non gli importava. Ha detto che avrebbe preferito morire, ma ... perché? Non poteva vedere come stavo lavorando duramente per farlo rimanere in vita? Ha cercato di uscire, ha cercato di scappare, eh. Beh, una volta che ha capito che non poteva, si fermò a provare. Afferrò il coltello e ha iniziato a fare una bella immagine per me. Ama la pittura. Ha detto che voleva dipingere la cappella tutta di nuovo. Così ha fatto. Io lo guardavo. Egli non si alzò. E 'ora di riposo, la siesta ... mi ha detto di stare sveglio ... Mi ha detto di fare la guardia. "

The mumbling began to turn delirious; Romano started talking about the oddest of things afterwards. His coughing grew worse and soon his voice was barely audible over a whisper, and he was practically screaming his words.

"Romano, Vuoi... startene... z-zitto per un momento?" The Spaniard tried, hoping the Italian would get through to his Romano, get him to stop the insane chattering.

"Dov'è la Spagna? Egli sarebbe stato qui per me, si sarebbe preso cura di me. Ha mi ha lasciato? Perché mi lasci qui? Non sa che fa male?"

If it was possible for his heart to break more, it did.

Did Lovino not recognise him?

"L... Lovi... I'm here... I-I-I'm right... here..." He clung to the brunette's brittle feeling shoulders, shaking him slightly, trying to wake him from his delirium. "I'm... right... here, Lovino."

But the muttering continued, and Romano's eyes were distant, they were staring straight past Spain.

"Fa male, fa male, Spagna. Per favore, aiutatemi. Vieni e mi aiuta ..."

He wanted to scream at him, bring him back to reality. Don't do this, don't do this Romano, the voice of his thoughts cried in grief, please don't do this Lovino. He pulled the weak, almost lifeless body to his chest, and clung on tight. This was the worst of it yet, seeing his little Lovino perish before his time, and in such a disgusting manor.

The coughing started again, harsh and bone shattering. Warmth spread across Spain's chest, and he realised the other must be retching again.

He let go of Romano, allowing the other to willingly roll off him and onto his stomach, barely keeping himself off the ground with shaking limbs as the blood splattered by Spain's legs. There was a shuddering gasp for air in between coughs, and when Lovino did finally stop coughing and was steady; his breathing had a gargling noise to it.

Spain panicked yet again, pulling Romano to sit up and look him directly in the eyes. The Italian's head looked heavy as his ragged breathing continued his eyes still distant.

"Lovino... Please... listen to me... Listen to me!" The Spaniard shook him, panic overriding any form of gentleness he had in his actions. "Por... favour... escucha..."

For a second, for a moment, Antonio saw hazel eyes meet his own, flicking up to see him. He saw them dilate, saw them swim with emotion that was not hate or anger. He stared, and couldn't find the words to say, falling dead silent.

What do you say to the person you love when they're dying?

It's one of those things, one of those questions you know the answers to, but as soon as you're faced with the situation not a thing springs to mind.

The silence lengthened, broken only by the sickening sound of Romano's breathing, and then –

Romano opened his mouth, the ghastly red covered every surface within it clinging to his beautiful teeth, his beautiful tongue, his—

The mouth was forming a word.

Spain's heart stopped, it didn't matter if he could hear the words or not, he could see them, he knew what they said.

Then the Sicilian choked, once, twice, three times before coughing up another final bout of the murky blood mixture. He fell forwards, limp into Antonio's hands and the breathing became solid gurgles of the liquid, frothing and spilling from his mouth and then—

Romano went completely limp.

Completely dead silence fell on the chapel again.

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><p><em><strong>Translations:<strong>_

**Per istam sanctan unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominu –**_ Latin, The spoken acts of the last rites in Catholic Religion._

**Requescant in pace **_– Latin, Rest in peace._

**Che cazzo ci fai qui? **_– What the fuck are you doing here?_

**Prendi il cazzo via da qui! Non avvicinarti! Immondo! Heathen! **_– Get the fuck out of here! Don't come! Unclean! Heathen!_

**Lo non ti lascerò lo porti da me, non voglio! Ha no bisogno del vostro aiuto! Ha solo bisogno di me! Ti aiuto io! I'll do it better! Ci arriveremo attraverso questo! Basta guardare, non abbiamo bisogno del vostro aiuto! **_-I will not let you take him from me, I will not! He has no need of your help! He just needs me! I'll help him! I'll do it better! We'll get through this! Just look, we do not need your help!_

**Sono il fratello più grande, quindi dovrei badare a lui! Se sei cazzo mi ascolta?**_ – I'm the older brother so I should look after him! Are you fucking listening to me!_

**Non toccarlo! **_– Don't touch him!_

**Tu ... tu lo... ammazzo! **_– You… You will… kill him!_

**Non è morto! **_– He's not dead!_

**Lui non è! Lui non lo è! Stai zitto! Stai zitto! Stai zitto! Stai zitto! **_– He's not! He's not! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!_

**Scappare. Vattene via! Non ho bisogno di aiuto, non abbiamo bisogno di aiuto. Andate via! Chiudi il becco. - **_Escape. Get away! I do not need help, we do not need help. Go away! Shut up._

**"Gli ho detto di non farlo. Gli dissi che avrebbe ottenuto sangue dappertutto, e avrei dovuto pulirlo. Gli ho detto quando è stato fatto sarebbe dispiaciuto, sarebbe stato chiesto il mio aiuto. Ha detto che non gli importava. Ha detto che avrebbe preferito morire, ma ... perché? Non poteva vedere come stavo lavorando duramente per farlo rimanere in vita? Ha cercato di uscire, ha cercato di scappare, eh. Beh, una volta che ha capito che non poteva, si fermò a provare. Afferrò il coltello e ha iniziato a fare una bella immagine per me. Ama la pittura. Ha detto che voleva dipingere la cappella tutta di nuovo. Così ha fatto. Io lo guardavo. Egli non si alzò. E 'ora di riposo, la siesta ... mi ha detto di stare sveglio ... Mi ha detto di fare la guardia. " **_- "I told him not to do it. I told him that he would get blood everywhere, and I would have to clean it. I told him when he was done he would be sorry, he would be asking for my help. He said he didn't care. He said he'd rather die, but... why? Couldn't he see how hard I was working to make him stay alive? He tried to get outside, he tried to escape, heh. Well, once he realised he could not, he stopped trying. He grabbed the knife and started making a pretty picture for me. He loves painting. He said he wanted to paint the entire chapel again. So he did. I watched him. He did not get up. He's resting now, taking a siesta... he told me to stay awake... he told me to keep watch." _

**Vuoi... startene... z-zitto per un momento? **_– Can …you… be quiet for a minute?_

**Dov'è la Spagna? Egli sarebbe stato qui per me, si sarebbe preso cura di me. Ha mi ha lasciato? Perché mi lasci qui? Non sa che fa male? **_– Where is Spain? He would be here for me, he would help me. Has he left me? Has he gone too? Doesn't he know it hurts?_

**Fa male, fa male, Spagna. Per favore, aiutatemi. Vieni e mi aiuta ... **_– It hurts, it hurts, Spain. Please help. Come and help me…_

**Por... favour... escucha... **_– Please, Listen._


	2. Chapter 2

No…

n..no…

This…

It couldn't be…

Why was this…

Happening…?

* * *

><p>Spain stared.<p>

He couldn't do anything else.

He was afraid of what might happen if he did.

Was Romano really…?

No…

No he couldn't be.

The denial clung like cold sweat to the Spaniard as he looked at Lovino's limp, dripping, silent form. He was still supported by Antonio's outstretched arms. Slowly, he decided to lower the body, pulling it into his bloodstained lap and cradling the figure. Not once during the movement was there a sign of life from the Italian.

"Roma…?"

The Spanish accent echoed into the silence, yet no response came. He shook the skeletal corpse.

"Roma, now's not the time to be sleeping, get up."

There were pricks tickling the corner of his eyes, he tried to blink them away and bit his trembling lip. There's no use fussing over him, he'd be up in a couple of seconds, and Spain would have to straighten up and act like the boss he was. He had to be brave, show his Romano there was nothing to worry about. After all, he would be up soon, everything would be okay, everything—

"Wake up, Romano! … Please!"

His pleading voice mumbled desperately, quivering with fear.

He shook Romano, a weak smile twitching onto his lips as he spoke, no cooed, his pleas at the carcass. He wouldn't let Romano see he was upset once he woke up. He wouldn't let the boy wake up to him thinking insane things like him drowning to death in his own blood. That was ridiculous; no one died like that, especially not nations.

He must have sat there for hours, trying to coax the Sicilian to awake.

Watching the Italian's cold face for sign of life, Antonio felt realization slowly sink through his shuddering body. He was dead. The feeling of denial was slowly stripped from his body as a chill struck the room; stifling the heat for a moment and painting it away with the cold before returning, but not at all in its once vigorous state.

He was dead.

Lovino Vargas, Romano, South Italy, was dead.

Something caught in his throat at that.

Admitting that to himself was like driving a steak through his own heart.

Finally, he allowed his face to fall and to bury his head against the deceased Italian's still chest.

That was the first day.

* * *

><p>Anger.<p>

It was all he felt, all he could feel.

The world became black and white to him. There was no colour, not on pristine artwork of the walls, not on the deep mahogany benches, not on the stained glass windows. There was naught except for the blood.

Questions, questions, so many questions.

Why Lovino?

How could he let this happen?

What could he have done to stop it?

Why were other people alive when the person he cared for most, the person he had spent the majority of his life protecting, the person he **loved** was dead?

It made him angry, beyond angry.

Throughout the day he stayed within the chapel. He switched between staying by Lovino's side, sitting on the second row of pews, and passing up and down the aisle. At one point he threw the altar cross at the wall, seething with anger, shaking uncontrollably.

He felt he was boiling up inside, and that whatever was boiling was pushing at his skin, the pressure building and building, longing to be released. He wanted to tear at it, he wanted to release the pressure, he wanted to explode, but found he couldn't.

* * *

><p>By the end of the second day he had Lovino in an unbreakable grip, tight against his chest as his tear sore eyes searched the room for salvation.<p>

By the end of the second day he'd begun to pray.

Using Romano's rosaries as a link to the boy he called out to the heavens he had followed devotedly through most of his life. The tiny form of man's savior, Jesus Christ, upon the cross that carried their sins rubbing against the Spaniard's thumb and forefinger as he spoke the divine words. Someone had to hear him, someone at least. He would have done anything to get an audience with the lord. Never before in his life had he wanted it this much. Not when his people were dying of the plague, not when he fought and claimed land in the name of him, nor even when his empire collapsed and fell around him, dragging Spain through hell along with it in the process.

Our Father, Jesus Christ, Virgin Mary.

He begged them for an answer, screaming until his throat went raw.

Allāh, Abraham, Muhammed.

He would give anything; his soul, his devotion, his people, his life. He would give anything in turn for the Italian to be alive, breathing, yelling at him for praying to something outside of the catholic religion.

He didn't care.

He just wanted him back.

He'd give anything.

By the third day he had given up.

He'd been exposed to the dead bodies and sickly sweet air for four days, even as a nation he was bound to have contracted the disease by now. Not that it would have made a difference, he didn't really see the point. What was his life really without Romano? He'd forgotten what he'd done before. Be owned? Fight for his country? Not a lot had mattered to him back then, everything had just been the rhythmic duties of being a country, and Lovino had been the one to make him realize he could _feel._

So what was the point?

After all, he was only a stone's throw away from Africa.

* * *

><p>He barely rose to consciousness now.<p>

Lying beside his Italian, work weathered hand joined with the cold of the others, the kingdom of Spain drifted in and out of his dreams. Memories, happy memories of them, the two of them, the family España once had. He heard their voices, begging for him to run off and play. He heard Romano, mumbling and cursing as he buried his mouth in a tomato, his little hand clinging on to the end of Antonio's coat. And then he'd drift back to reality in this dream like state, feeling the cold crusting liquid stick to him like syrup.

At one point he heard footsteps.

At one point he heard his name.

Felt himself being pulled up.

Felt arms around him.

Saw golden hair.

Saw his friend.

His hand slipped from the Sicilian's, energy less fingertips barely brushing against the other's.

"He's dead, Francia."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Unfortunately as many of my friends refuse to read through and check this for me it hasn't been beta'd, so if any mistakes crop up please help me by pointing them out~ No long translations in this one for you, It's also a hell of a lot shorter... But with good reason. I can't state how much it irritates me that I can't make the text do the things it was doing in word. So no word art and nice spacing for you. Hope you enjoyed... or not enjoyed... or whatever... I realise that this is probably the most depressing thing I've written :| But you can tell me all about your reaction in a Review~ <strong>


	3. Chapter 3

"He's dead, Francia…"

Italy was gone.

Francis Bonnefoy had never really considered the reasons behind his and the Spaniard's obsession with the Italy brothers. Perhaps it had been their time together under the 'care' (Francis always used that term loosely) of Rome that had inspired them, perhaps it was just their big brotherly nature, but either way the pair had squabbled over them for the entirety of their youth. A small part of the Frenchman had never given up on this fight, even when the two had grown up and gained their independence, but then again it was also this small part that craved for the Spanish man's attention, and was insanely jealous of the way that he looked at Romano.

When the virus had hit, Francis was one of the first to understand the full grasp of what was going to happen. He had been through illnesses one too many times, and, being the grand centre of Europe, he'd grown accustom to getting them all one way or another. In fact, the Frenchman was pleasantly surprised by how long he had managed to last. His boss had been rather forceful and efficient in the precautions they took. When the virus had made it past turkey their country had gone back to rationing, refusing to exchange food with any other nation and putting their own supply under close observation. Their borders were always closely monitored, and their embassies were given the grand task of passing on news as to whether there had been rumours of outbreak in the other countries, any kind of exchange between those countries would effectively be impossible as soon as word reached Paris.

However, the general consensus of the people of France wasn't entirely positive. Francis had watched as his people lashed out in anger at the isolation from their neighbouring countries. Families were torn apart and businesses ruined. A large amount of religious followers spoke out against the oppression of their freedom, and hailed the coming disease as the 'lord's divine punishment over this diseased war craving world'. It was quite sickeningly humorous to the Frenchman in a way, seeing all the religions that he'd seen the world tear itself apart to appease, civilisations slaughtered and wars waged, all over the simple argument of 'my religion is better than yours', and yet here they were on the brink of the world's destruction, banded together to welcome in the disease and cleanse the world of all sin. The irony.

"Antonio..."

Francis cradled the grief stricken man in his arms, never before in his entire existence had he seen a sight so pitiful. His clothes were crusted with blood and bile, he smelt something rotten and was covered in a thin layer of sweat. Antonio himself was relatively unharmed. True, he looked like he hadn't eaten in weeks and had barely enough energy to raise his head, but this was nothing a little bit of tender love and care wouldn't fix. The greatest wound, Francis could see, was in the male's heart.

When Antonio Fernandez Carriedo turned to look at him, his eyes were void of the life and emotion they had once been so alight with. It seemed like the muscles of his face were incapable of doing anything other than the barest of actions, and when the Spaniard's mouth twitched into a slight smile it sent shivers up the Frenchman's spine in a way he had never before experienced.

"Lovino's gone... he's gone now..." Antonio stopped to cough, his throat so incredibly dry.

Francis pulled out a bottle of water from his bag, guilt hitting him when he realised how much he had drunk of it earlier, wishing he'd saved it for the man who was clearly in more need. He popped the cap and brought it to his old friend's lips, the liquid running between their dry cracked surface and for the first time in days he drank. The blonde ran a hand through his old friend's hair, sighing a little with relief that Antonio was okay.

"Oui, Oui, mon ami... He's at peace... He's safe now..." Francis' words of comfort drifted on the sweet air, as the bottle soon emptied and he tossed it to one side, tugging Antonio up little by little in his dazed dreamlike state until he was sat. "You have to come with me now... come back to Marseille with me, oui? There is a boat waiting... we'll be able to get back within a couple of days... oui? We'll get you back and fed and—"

"Francia..." Antonio interrupted, eyes on the body of his fallen charge, a sad distant expression on his face. "I... do you think..."

"Shhh..." The Frenchman hushed his companion, pulling him closer and smiling a little in comfort, "It can wait, oui? Lets get you to somewhere safe..." He soothed the other, before attempting to stand, slinging his old friend's arm around his shoulders to support him as he lead him away from Lovino and out into the silent colossal spaces of an empty Rome.

Despite it's history, despite all of its hardships and everything it had endured, Italy had fallen. It didn't matter how big an impression you left on time and the map, in the end it was your people that mattered. If a country couldn't protect it's people then nothing would save it, and you'd either fall and be replaced by another, or disappear from existence all together. And like the grand structures and shells of buildings, you'd be nothing more than a distant memory.

Not once did Antonio look back.

**~In the end, We all fall down~ **

**AN: Sorry it took so long to update guys, I had some real trouble with Francis and how I'd get from A to B in the plot. But thankfully I finally got this chapter done. Of course, it doesn't help when your housemates refuse to allow you to write any more because it's 'too sad' BP****.**** Again I'd like to apologise for any grammatical or spelling errors as everyone refuses to Beta this :'I**

**I hope you enjoy, It all kicks off in the next chapter.**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

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><p>It was a hot and terrible fever.<p>

He lingered for days and days in a constant disequilibrium between his dreams and reality, though you couldn't really call them dreams. He had hot sweats and cold sweats. There were nights where he just screamed, calling out to something that was already gone, cursing the entire of existence and yelling to things that didn't exist. He began feverishly reciting Latin prayers over and over again as he stared at the ceiling shaking uncontrollably, for the longest time everyone feared he was going mad. Once he'd awoken to a most pleasant sight, there he was; his charge, his Italy, his Lovino, leaning over him in his sleep. "Don't worry Bastard." He'd said, whispering softly against his forehead as he leant down to kiss it, the words echoing, he seemed so far away, it didn't make sense. "I'm at peace now, right? No need for you to fucking worry about me." And he was right, wasn't he? There was no need. Lovino Vargas in his soft, angelic form that was before him was at peace, in god's arms high up above, in eternal bliss. But why were there cracks? Why was Lovino's skin beginning to peel away like a cracked oil painting? He reached up to touch the crack, try and determine whether it was real, or his eyes playing another trick. At the contact the surface of Italia Romano's perfect olive skin fractured and began to flake away, falling like snow... or... like ash. It was warm, suddenly far too warm for the Spaniard as he felt himself begin to sweat, Lovino continuing to flake away, his mouth opening and uttering those soundless words he had done so long ago and Antonio, the kingdom of Spain, lay there, horrified as they repeated over and over in the loudest volume possible in his head. Blood leaked past the cracks in Romano's skin until all fell away and the Italian became dust and air.

Francis had remained diligently by Antonio's side, feeding him as much as he could, though they were half rations; basic soups and the occasional loaf of bread. He was there for him to mop his brow, to be screamed at and cried on as the Spaniard slowly regained his grip on reality. When the younger nation seemed to have reached his worst, when Francis was worried he'd lose another friend, Spain pulled through, waking up half dead 2 weeks after he'd arrived at the port of Marseille.

"Fr-Francis...?"

The Frenchman rushed to his companion's side, helping him sit up as he squinted against the harsh light of the southern French coast seeping through the blinds.

"Oui, Mon ami?" The country of France smiled when the Spaniard's eyes recognised his presence for once. "Back in the land of the living are you?"

Francis laughed, but the Spaniard did not. Silence settled once more on the room before Spain broke it with abrupt coughing.

"Uh... Are you okay? How are you feeling, mon cher?" There was concern in Francis' eyes as he moved closer to do... he lingered for a moment... something, eventually settling with patting him on the back to ease the cough.

"Si, si... Francesco I am fine... Por favor... Stop." Antonio let out a heavy sigh once he'd caught his breath, massaging his throat. "It's just a cough; everyone has a cough these days."

Francis chose instead to just frown, they both knew – despite however much they both wanted it to be true – that Antonio was lying. These were the first signs, next thing he would know his childhood friend and ally would be coughing up blood, slowly rotting from the inside out, as his bodily functions start to shut down, cell re-growth tries to compensate and speeds up, but too fast for his body and unhealthily too... eventually he'll wind up like the rest of them – unless...

"Antoine... what if... what if we got you a secluded corner of France... take a handful of people, quarantined of course, non? And then we just... let you have that... keeping your people free of the disease... then maybe...maybe if we give you that... after everyone else is gone... you'll still..." Francis stopped, broken off by the look in Antonio's eyes, almost fearful. "Antoine?"

Antonio snapped out of his train of thought, looking to Francis with confused eyes. "Que?"

"I was saying what if we gave you a part of my country an-"

"Lo siento Francis, but no... I don't think now is the time to abandon my people... I am the Kingdom of España. My people are who I am; it would be ill fitting to lose complete hope on them. Besides, you worry too much, Francis... Perhaps it'll just pa-" He erupted, rather ironically into fits of coughing, bringing his hand to his mouth as Francis rubbed his back.

"I-It was just a suggestion, mon ami." The Frenchman sighed as a distant ringing of the phone called upstairs. "Ah... I should get that... désolé..."

Antonio kept his hand to his mouth, watching as Francis left the room before looking down at his hand with a disappointed, but accepting sigh.

_~Ring o Ring o Roses~_

"Bonjour~" Francis replied his ever cheery self over the phone, soon holding the receiver away from his ear however as he heard the caller yell at him. "Q-Quoi? Désolé... I did not quite uhhh... catch that?"

"Is. He. Here?" The receiver buzzed, the sound of an irritated middle aged man echoing down the telephone wires.

"You know you are going to have to be a bit more clear than that I have no idea who you are on about." Francis replied slightly snootily, stiffening at the fact that his boss even dared to start the call off so rudely.

"You know who I'm on about. The Spaniard. I heard you'd come home with someone from Italy despite your best interests and brought someone back with you. I'm fully aware that Italy has fallen so aside from the Germans who have gone in to lockdown, that would be your reckless and stupid friend and neighbour!"

Francis rolled his eyes, biting his nail slightly as he looked up to where Antonio had got up to go to the bathroom apparently, a couple of coughs still heard. "Oui... He is here... problem?"

"Oui there is a problem!" The older man barked over the phone, "The virus has broken out in the Andalusian towns; it's only a matter of time before they're all gone too, and your 'friend' will probably be already showing the symptoms! I want him out of the country! I do not want that filth touching our beloved country. So get your Spanish flee ridden mongrel out of this land or. Put. It. Down." The stern voice responded, shocking the Frenchman slightly at the panic and demand that was audible in the quake of his tone.

"B-But Monsieur... he is a nation, he cannot possibly infe-"

"I want him gone." The voice replied with a renewed sense of authority. "Don't you forget Francis, you are the grand nation of France, and you answer to you people and your leaders before you listen to yourself. You can do nothing to stop us because it's what we want... and because it's what we want, it's what you want too. So stop this pitiful attempt to be human and obey me."

Francis stood, a little shell shocked at the announcement, only able to stammer back in a shaking and uncertain state, "Oui, right away..."

Antonio stared into the sink of the house, the colour red filling his vision, red and white, just like Lovino the last he'd seen him.

_~Ring o Ring o Roses~_

"I'm sorry, mon ami..."

"Stop that..."

"But I am... Truly very sorry..."

The car drive so far had been awkward, stopping occasionally so that the Spaniard could get some air, cough some more and ease his lungs. Francis had explained the situation in an attempt to feel at ease for what he had to do, and despite how much Antonio had told him it was okay, he couldn't shake the feeling of guilt, pressing in on him.

"Just keep your eyes on the road Francis and stop worrying about me." The Spaniard sighed, looking out of the window.

The hours passed slowly, but they got there eventually, Francis flashing papers at the border control before being let through to the gate. It was so eerily quiet, had it really been a year ago that this place would have been filled with commuters and holiday makers?

"Well... here we are..." Francis broke the silence.

"Si..." Antonio sighed, looking at the gate for a moment before grabbing the bag full of items Francis had put together for him and grabbing the handle of the door, departing and beginning to walk to the gate. Francis too departed the car.

"Antonio-!" Francis called after the male as he moved under the opened gate, who turned back to look at him. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, oui?"

Antonio managed to smile ever so slightly, the guard at the other end calling out as the gate began to lower itself. "You too, take good care of yourself, afterall, you'll need to." He seemed saddened for a moment before looking back to the Frenchman and adding as his final words. "You know what a close friend of mine's last words to me were?"

"Quoi?" Francis tried desperately to call over the loud mechanics of the gate, as it steadily drew to it's close.

"There is nothing else."

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><p><strong>~We all fall down~<strong>

**A/N: HERE HAVE A NEW CHAPTER I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO SAY~**


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